


For All Things A Beginning

by 0hHeyThereBigBadWolf



Series: A Poem Lovely As A Tree [9]
Category: The Librarians (TV 2014)
Genre: Boys In Love, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Nightmares, Prequel, Though They Don't Know It Yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 20:52:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18240065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf/pseuds/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf
Summary: A nightmare on a rainy night is all it takes to bring them together.





	For All Things A Beginning

Jacob startles awake in a split second, hands gripping the coverlet tightly as his body tingles with a spike of adrenaline. His pulse feels thick in his mouth, and he has to concentrate on relaxing his limbs for a moment.

He thinks one of the curses of having an active, creative imagination is having _really_ goddamn vivid nightmares. He blows out a breath, staring up at the darkened ceiling of his bedroom, hearing the incessant tapping of rain against the roof and window; after a moment of trying to calm himself down with minimal success, he sits up and stands, walking over to the balcony doors where a plant basket is hung, tendrils of green as long as his arm dangling down. Even the familiar feel of the plant's energy, sluggish and sleepier in the night, doesn't help him feel any better.

He doesn't even remember what his nightmare was about now, only that he feels almost sick with unease. Jacob rests his head against the cold glass of the balcony door. If it hadn't been raining, maybe he would've gone out, found himself something to eat at an all-night diner or something, but he doesn't have the will to head out into the weather now. He couldn't focus on reading if he wanted to.

Turning away from the window, he glances at the clock, blinking 2:27 at him with red eyes, and frowns. Cassandra's a morning person, she'll have been in bed for hours by now; Eve, too. Well…he knows that Ezekiel is a nightlife sort of person. And honestly, he doesn't want to talk to Cassandra or Eve or Jenkins. He wants to hear that thick accent and jaunty tone, and those damn jokes that always manage to get his mind out of whatever rut it's sunk into.

Sighing, he walks over, sits on the edge of the bed, and picks up his mobile.

 

Ezekiel hears his mobile buzzing next to him.

Usually, he wouldn't bother to answer, not when he's in the middle of absolutely _slaying_ FarCry. But since joining the Library, he doesn't get very many 2-in-the-morning calls unless the world is in danger of cracking open like an egg. So he pauses the game and fishes the mobile out of his pocket; his suspicion that something must be wrong is confirmed when he sees the cowboy's number.

He swipes his thumb across the screen. "What's up, mate?"

_"Jones, you're up."_

"Nope, I'm talking in my sleep, please leave a message for my conscious mind," he replies with a snort, and it's a genuine surprise when Jacob laughs softly. The cowboy hardly ever laughs at his jokes, not unless he's caught off-guard and just cracks up. "Something up?" Ezekiel asks. If it was a Librarian problem, Jacob would have already started laying it out for him, asking him to get to the Annex. Which means it probably _isn't_ a Librarian problem.

_"I just…wanted to see if—if you were up."_

There's something hesitant in Jacob's voice, something quiet and weary-sounding that makes Ezekiel's mouth turn down. "Are you okay?"

There's a crackle of static as Jacob sighs, and maybe he's been around the man a little too long, but he can almost picture him scrubbing a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. _"Not really, I guess. I haven't been able to sleep for shit this past week, and when I do, I have these…goddamn nightmares, and I'm just…"_ Another rustling sigh.

Oh, damn. The cowboy puts a very special value on sleep. He'd once punched Flynn into a bloody nose after being woken up too early, and he always liked to say that at his age, beauty rest was not optional.

"Do you want me to come over or something? Pizza and a film?" he offers.

_"Oh, no, no, Jones, you don't have to do that."_

Oh, yes, he does. He knows that voice. That's the voice that means if Jacob isn't distracted from whatever nightmare's given him this bad of a shaking-up, he'll sit and stew on it for hours. Setting the mobile on the table and putting it on speaker, Ezekiel saves his game and turns off the Xbox, then pulls his shoes out from under the coffee table.

_"Jones? You still there?"_ Jacob asks hesitantly.

"Yep. I'm getting my shoes on."

_"Don't. I mean it. It's raining sideways, man."_

"Oi, I may be sweet, but I'm not made of sugar. I won't melt," Ezekiel remarks, tying up his laces. He grabs his hoodie off the back of the sofa and shrugs it on.

_"Sweet my ass,"_ the historian snorts, sounding almost like himself for a second. _"C'mon, Jones, I mean it. Just stay home, forget I called, okay? I'll be fine."_

Yeah, right. If Jacob was fine, he wouldn't be quite so insistent about it. "I'm on the way out now."

_"I won't let you in,"_ the historian threatens. _"If you won't listen to me, your dumb ass can stand out in the rain."_

Bold words. Ezekiel didn't believe a single one of them. "See you in a minute, cowboy," he says, and hangs up before Jacob has a chance to say anything else.

He knows where Jacob lives; he makes it a point to know where all of his teammates live, just in case. Jacob owns a townhouse in the city; it's a lovely place, a bit more than what he would have expected a hick could afford, but of course, being a world-renowned art geek can pay a very pretty penny. Especially being five different ones. If Ezekiel hadn't known him personally, Jacob would fall into the category of people that have enough money that they can stand to have some liberated from their bank accounts.

He pays the cabbie and asks him to honk the horn a few times, then gets out. The rain is coming down thick and heavy, and even with his hood up, his hair is already getting damp. One of the balcony doors opens, and Jacob steps out, wearing baggy sweatpants and a Black Sabbath t-shirt that looks like it hasn't been put through the wash since _Paranoid_ hit the top of the charts. He stays under the overhang so he doesn't get wet, and he looks exasperated...but his mouth was twitching a little. "Jones, go home!" he shouts.

"Oi, you called me, cowboy," he laughs, holding out his arms.

"And I told you to _stay home!"_

"Well, too late now! C'mon, mate, let me in, it's raining!"

Jacob shakes his head. "No shit, Sherlock."

"Fuck you, Watson. Are you gonna let me in, or should I pick the lock?"

The historian shakes his head in exasperation...then turns and goes back inside, closing the door firmly.

For a moment, Ezekiel stands there in bafflement, staring up at the balcony, then glancing at the front door. He doesn't see any lights coming on, or anyone through the glass windows. His chest is starting to get tight, hurt closing up his throat.

A metallic jingling brings his head up again, and sharp reflexes are the only thing that keep him from being poked in the eye by a set of keys. He looks back up at Jacob and grins. The cowboy is trying his hardest to glower from the balcony, arms folded over his chest. "Leave your shoes on the damn mat by the door. You track mud over my house, and I'm gonna throw you off this balcony," he calls down.

Ezekiel gives him a salute and runs to the front door. There is a mat in the foyer with a few pairs of Jacob's clodhopper boots on it, and he leaves his soaked trainers there before he heads upstairs. A part of him very much wants to look around at the inside of Jacob's house, just out of curiosity, wanting to know how he lives, but he suppresses the urge and he goes to what has to be Jacob's bedroom.

He's not wrong. Jacob is standing over by the foot of his bed, arms folded over his chest in a parody of irritation, though the corners of his mouth are twitching again. "I told you to stay home," he says again.

"Yeah, well, you know how I am about listening." Ezekiel sets the keys on top of a dresser next to a pile of loose change, a wallet, and a pack of gum, the contents of Jacob's pockets no doubt. He shoves his hands in his pockets then immediately rethinks that decision, making a face as he untangles his hands from the fabric.

"You'll catch a cold in wet clothes," Jacob murmurs, and something stirs beneath his voice, something dark and rich and heady that Ezekiel's never heard before.

It makes his stomach flutter with warmth in response, and he hears himself saying, "Wanna help me out of 'em, then?" He means for it to come out teasingly, a joke, but it doesn't, not quite. It's not a joke. Whatever the hell this is, it isn't a joke. He doesn't just stand outside in the bloody rain for a joke. And Jacob wouldn't call him for nothing. At least, he really hopes not.

For a terrible moment, neither of them moves, gazing at each other across the bedroom, but then Jacob takes two strides towards him, and Ezekiel takes the last one to meet him. The historian's hands are rough on the sides of his neck and jaw, but his mouth is soft and warm and tastes like honey. Ezekiel's toes curl in his shoes. When they pull apart, he draws in a deep breath, pulse in his mouth. His fingers twist around Jacob's t-shirt and tug him closer, wanting to be nearer to him.

Jacob makes a soft sound in his throat and shies away from the cold dampness of Ezekiel's clothes; taking the thief up on his invitation, he takes the bottom hem of the young man's shirt and hoodie and peels them both up at the same time, tossing them to the floor with a slap of wet fabric. Jacob's hands are almost fever-warm to Ezekiel's rain-chilled skin, callused fingertips trailing fire down his ribcage to the snap of his trousers, flicking it open. He shivers when they come off, too, and suddenly, the historian is wearing more clothes than him. It's a situation quickly remedied by Jacob yanking his t-shirt up and pushing his pyjama bottoms down, stepping out of them.

They take staggering, half-tripping steps towards the bed until the backs of Jacob's legs hit the mattress, and he goes down, falling onto his back. Ezekiel starts to climb up over him, but he misjudges the distance somewhere and slams his shin against the edge of the bedframe. Hard. _"Ow,_ fuck!" he yelps.

Jacob snorts loudly, then quickly puts a hand over his mouth, though his shoulders are still shaking. "I'm sorry, I-I shouldn't laugh," he giggles, then laughs anyways, putting his head back against the coverlet. He runs both hands up the thief's ribcage. "Are you okay?"

"Wonderful, love, just peachy," Ezekiel replies, unable to help smiling as well, despite his aching leg.

"Some elegant thief you are," Jacob murmurs. His hands slide up Ezekiel's arms to his shoulders, drawing him down into another kiss, running his fingers through silky black hair. It's so soft, he thinks, so very soft, and it smells like vanilla.

"Cheeky," the thief murmurs back, so close Jacob feels the words more than he hears them.

What comes next is more than Ezekiel's ever experienced before. It's not sex. It's…Jesus, it's actually lovemaking. Now that the tension's been broken with their starting block stumble, it goes slower. Jacob has no intention of rushing this, apparently, and Ezekiel…doesn't entirely mind that. It feels _good._

Jacob is intent on mapping every bit of Ezekiel's skin with his lips and his fingers. He does it with the same focus and attention to detail that he gives to translating an ancient manuscript or restoring a piece of art. It's like he's trying to learn Braille. Or maybe the wanker already knows Braille, which wouldn't surprise him a bit. He explores everywhere, even sliding down his legs. Ezekiel squeaks aloud when Jacob's fingers ghost feather-light behind his knee, then quickly bites his lips together.

"What was that?" he asks.

"Uhm."

Jacob's lips curl up. "Are you ticklish?"

"No!"

Another wriggle of fingers behind his knee, and Ezekiel can't help but twitch away with another little noise. The historian full-on grins at that. "You are."

"I will kick you off this bed," he warns.

"My bed. It's against the rules." Jacob kisses the side of his knee and doesn't press, crawling back up the bed to kiss Ezekiel again, lips trailing gently from the corner of his mouth to his jaw, a slow, sweet line to his ear and down his neck, just barely scraping his teeth against skin. When his mouth finds its way down to the soft spot just below Ezekiel's collarbone, the thief's whole body just sort of…reacts. His toes curl and his legs kind of draw up too, hands twitching on the bedsheets. "Hm, another not-ticklish place? Or just a hot spot?" Jacob murmurs. He scrapes his teeth over that soft hollow of skin again, and Ezekiel gives a full-body shudder under him. "Well, alright, then. C'mere."

When Jacob goes for another kiss, Ezekiel puts some of his acrobatic skills to use and twists under him, rolling them over so Jacob is suddenly the one on his back. The thief straddles him, leaning down to do some exploring of his own. He kisses his way down Jacob's neck, and when he comes to the soft hollow at the base of his throat, he gently draws the soft, warm skin between his teeth. Jacob mellows beneath him with a low groan, the sound vibrating against Ezekiel's lips. _Hot spots,_ the younger man thinks, marking the spot for later reference.

He migrates his way down the historian's torso, applying the same treatment Jacob had given him—lips and teeth and tongue, making lazy trails down his chest and stomach. When he reaches the small dip above Jacob's navel, the other man lets out a strangled little sound, hands holding Ezekiel's shoulders tight. Smug, he drags his teeth across the skin again, making him groan aloud. He starts moving south once more, trailing kisses along the edge of his hipbone. When he moves from the left hip to the right, Ezekiel pauses.

There's scars on Jacob's hip. They're almost invisible, but under the strange silver-white light from the streetlamp outside the window, they stand out in pale stripes against his tanned skin, raking in crooked lines over his hip. "What's this from?" Ezekiel rubs his thumb across the silvery ghost-tattoo of scar tissue, curious. He's not sure why he asks; the historian hadn't asked when he came across Ezekiel's own scars, though he hadn't missed their presence, tracing them with kisses. But a part of him wants to know.

Jacob's fingers curl around his, gently drawing his hand away from the scars. "Don't. Please?"

The thief hears an undercurrent of pain there, an old wound that still aches, and Jacob doesn't need to tell Ezekiel what the scars are from now. He knows. He _knows_. And it makes him want to hack into every single bank account Isaac Stone has left to his name. But more importantly it makes Ezekiel want to hold onto the man beneath him, hard as he can. On impulse, he lowers his head and presses his lips over the scar feather-light, lingering for a long moment before pulling away, crawling back up the bed to kiss him.

And then one kiss becomes two and three, and the heat that'd lowered to a simmer begins to climb back up again. Ezekiel rolls his hips just right to bring his cock against Jacob's, a hot, perfect friction. The historian arches off the bed with a moan, hands gripping Ezekiel's arms tight, but then he pushes instead, putting space between them. Baffled, Ezekiel leans away and tries to wrestle down the cold spike of uncertainty that's trying to crawl up his throat.

But instead, Jacob turns over onto his stomach, sliding his hands beneath the pillows to grasp the headboard. Ezekiel doesn't protest the shift in position and presses himself against Jacob's back, kissing the nape of his neck and shoulders, moving his hips in a perfectly torturous rhythm against him. "Table," Jacob gasps, arching his back like a cat. "Second drawer."

The thief leans over and opens the second drawer on the bedside table; there's just enough streetlamp light from the window for him to see and dig out lube and a condom. As he slicks up his fingers, the realisation that he's about to actually do this with Jacob, _to_ Jacob, fully sinks in and almost makes him lightheaded from lack of blood to his brain. He fastens his mouth over the side of the historian's neck, biting and sucking, working the warm skin and firm muscle between his teeth, first one side and then the other. The historian writhes under him, groaning and gasping, his hands gripping the headboard so tight Ezekiel could hear it creaking.

Finally, _finally,_ he's inside, and it's slick and tight and hot and just _perfect._ For a moment, they're both strung tight as piano wires, gasping for air like drowning men, trembling from the onslaught of sensation. Jacob's making a strangled sound in his throat, a groan that breaks into a choked-off whine, and Ezekiel will be damned if he says it doesn't turn him on, stokes his ego a bit to know that _he's_ the cause of those noises, noises he never would have thought Jacob could make.

Bracing his hands on either side of Jacob's shoulders, he starts moving, finding a rhythm and the will to maintain it. They move together in tandem. Deep waves of pleasure roll through him, white fire coiling in the small of his back and the pit of his belly, like a spring being wound tighter and tighter until it finally just _snaps._ Jacob shudders under him with finality, and Ezekiel feels a tingling rush of energy spill across his skin. As the last ecstatic spasms taper off, he collapses against the hot, sweat-slick skin of Jacob's back, feeling his heart pounding, gasping for breath. He presses his nose into dark hair and inhales. The historian smells like ripe apples and honeysuckle, a rich, dark headiness that makes him sigh and relax.

Jacob gives a wordless murmur under him, one hand reaching back to pat Ezekiel's thigh insistently a few times before the thief realises that he's still lying his full weight on him. "Oh, sorry, love," he mumbles, lifting himself up and shifting over to lay beside him instead.

The cowboy rolls onto his back, breathing deeply. One hand reaches over to rest against Ezekiel's chest, fingers resting lightly on his heartbeat. "Thank you," he says, eyes half-lidded.

"For?"

"Answering your phone." He stretches his entire body like a cat, spine bowing, fingers and toes curling, and despite the haze of satisfaction he's still in, Ezekiel swallows hard. Sitting up, Jacob runs a hand back over his hair, ruffling it into further disarray, as impossible as it sounds. "I dunno about you, but I need a shower," he says, and Ezekiel tenses slightly, waiting for the dismissal, the 'go ahead and let yourself out' that's to follow. But then Jacob looks back at him, the corners of his mouth curving up. "There's another bathroom downstairs. Or there's plenty of room in this one. Up to you."

He slides out of the bed and heads to the bathroom with a hitch in his gait; he doesn't turn the light on, but Ezekiel hears the shower kick on. For a moment he just lays there on the bed, listening to the sounds of falling water, the rain outside and the shower inside. The thought crosses his mind to leave, to put his clothes on, wet or not, and go home—but it's a feeble wisp of a thought, there and gone in an instant. Just so his brain could be satisfied in saying that he'd considered his options, as if there were any in the first place.

Ezekiel gets to his feet, wobbling just a little, and heads into haze of warm steam that's filling the bathroom. It's dim but not wholly dark, and his night vision is good enough to see by. So he slides open the shower door, steps in, and closes it behind him, sighing happily at the spray of hot water. "Bloody hell, mate, that's what I call water pressure," he remarks.

Jacob chortles and reaches out to ruffle Ezekiel's hair wetly.

As they clean up—none of Jacob's things are scented, which strikes Ezekiel as curious, given that he smells so good all the time—there's a new kind of sensitivity between them. It's the awareness that comes from crossing the line into intimacy. Ezekiel's conscious of Jacob next to him like he's never been aware of him before, though they've shared showers in the Annex's locker room before.

"So. Jones," Jacob drawls, drawing out his name.

"So, Stone," Ezekiel echoes. He knows that the Talk is coming. The Discussion. And it kind of makes him want to jump out of the shower right now and bolt for the stairs. But he decides to bite the bullet and get it out now, try to regain at least a little bit of ground. "What happens now, then? Eh?"

"You and me?" A callused hand grasps his shoulder and turns him around, and then a thick, sudsy washcloth is being gently scrubbed down his back. Ezekiel almost laughs; he hasn't needed someone to wash his back for him since he was in single digits.

"Yeah, mate, you and me. If this is just a bit of stress relief shagging, that's fine by me." The words are bitter in his mouth, more so than he ever remembers them being before. "Pretend it never happened, business as usual?"

Jacob angles them so the water runs down Ezekiel's back, rinsing away the suds. "And if I don't want to do that?"

The thief is glad he's facing the wall, because he's not sure he hid his shock as well as he'd have liked.

Ignoring his silence, Jacob goes on, his voice soft almost lost to the drum of the water. "If I wanted you to stay, if I said I wanted something more than that, what then?" he asks. His hand grasps Ezekiel's elbow and turns him around so they're face to face. "Out of everyone I know, I called _you._ Okay? Just you. So…it's up to you."

His heart is rabbiting in his chest, fast and hard, and he can feel his pulse in his mouth. "And if I say yes? You think we can make this work? Working together and… everything else? You and me?" Ezekiel doesn't quite have the nerve to say it, but he doesn't know that _they_ could work, him and Jacob, as different as they are. And he _likes_ Jacob, surprisingly enough, he truly does, but so many things are easier imagined than done.

The historian turns off the water, and the sudden quiet is as thick as steam around them. "I do," he answers with a smile. "Well, Jones? You up for it?"

Ezekiel smiles back, unable to help himself. "Well, I do love a challenge," he remarks.

Jacob leans in and kisses him briefly. "Good. C'mon. Let's get dressed, and I'll put your stuff in the dryer."

The cowboy's clothes are a bit roomy on him, loose around the shoulders and at the hips, but they're dry and smell like him. Ezekiel rubs his hair dry with a towel as his wet clothes are taken to a dryer, and when he comes back, Jacob makes a little jump up onto the bed, like a little kid that's worried the monster underneath might grab his ankles if he gets too close. It's hilariously endearing, and Ezekiel muffles a snort.

"Well, Jonesy, there's a guest room. Or your stuff will be dry in a little while," Jacob says as he pushes the comforter to the end of the bed.

For a split second, he's almost insulted. Does Jacob really think he's just going to up and make a break for it now? But then a thought hits him, and he smiles, a surge of deep fondness for this git welling up. Jacob doesn't _want_ him to go anywhere, but he's still letting Ezekiel know he _can_ , that there's a choice. Just like with the shower, he's being given the choice, even if it's hardly one at all. Damn, the art geek knows him better than he would've thought. "I think this'll do for now," he remarks, pitching his towel back into the bathroom like Jacob had.

"Good to know."

Ezekiel slides into the bed, and on an impulse, he moves closer and puts an arm over the other man. Jacob hums softly and turns a little more so his back is pressed to Ezekiel's chest, snuggling back against him. It's so absurd that the thief has to press his face against Jacob's shoulder to keep from laughing aloud. He's in bed with a coworker who'd somehow become a friend who's now apparently somehow become a lover. And who is apparently also a little spoon. Someone he never would have thought he could even _like,_ much less be with.

"Something funny?" Jacob murmurs, sounding halfway asleep already.

"Nothing. Just thinking," Ezekiel replies just as softly, lips brushing the nape of his neck. Unscented soap or not, he still smells like an orchard.

Jacob reaches back and wriggles his fingers behind Ezekiel's knee, making him nearly kick the historian out of reflex, tugging his leg away. "Well, quit that. Go to sleep, punk-ass, leave it for tomorrow."

Ezekiel does just that.


End file.
